Dreaming part II

I used to hang out at record stores, aimlessly looking, waiting. I used to think life would come to me, but now I know life doesn't come, it just happens. The man at the record store I frequented the most was tall with dark hair and a beard. He'd look at me and shake his head, knowing I'd probably get some Beatles record or The Doors. I wanted to reach out to him and talk, because he was older and could give me some wisdom, tell me stories of his life that I could cling to. Maybe he'd share a cigarette.

When I was a child I wandered the playground alone. Kids were all around me but I could not seem to trust anyone, and so I kept to myself, just wandering. I found an old tree with pools of water at its base, leaves drifting over the liquid glass reflection. I'd sit and stare at the pool, and the dark wooded roots, and the ants and spiders moving in and around. I called it my witches brew and every day I added something to the mix and stir it all up until recess was over. Sometimes mother would walk by on her way home for lunch and I'd cling to the wire fence with fingers dangling out to touch. "Take me home mother."

Home was still in fragments of memories: father and his beer cans flying against the wall, his retching in the bathroom, yelling, fighting, fear, pain, prison. Loneliness.

I had records and books. And dreams. Sometimes dreams are all you have to get you through a day. Sometimes you have to be patient and wait while all the memories and pain fade into a dull ache.

The man must have known I was still in a fragile state of metamorphosis. He was kind, allowing me to hang around. He'd greet me with a smile, even suggest records that he thought I might like. I was smart enough to know that eighteen and forty-something are bad numbers, but I still dreamed of him. Dreaming of him helped me get through each day.


  1. I suppose the only good thing one can say about certain of your childhood experiences, is that you now know how NOT to behave with your own children.

    Bisou, Cro.

  2. The beauty in this passage comes from its realism. There is some line, some memory I think almost everyone can relate to.

    Which one do I relate most to?

    that feeling of wandering on the playground...surrounded by others but still alone.

    Well written, Amy. Beautiful thoughts.

  3. Dreams are something I've always hold onto and held them tighter than anything else in my life. It's the dreams that get you through the toughest times... those moments you're not sure you'll get past.

  4. You're absolutely right Cro, I very often draw from my childhood and compare it to my current role of parenting. Of course, it makes it hard to have perspective—I probably under parent sometimes in an effort not to be like my father.

    Tess- Nice to see you! Thank you. I'm getting better at purging in more poetic fashion : )

    ((Jen))- very nice : )

  5. Amy, we all have to remember that a child's brain is just like a computer; very easy to put stuff in, but very difficult to get it out again. Sounds to me like you're doing just fine!

  6. Amy again I'm touched by your blog post. You are very special to all of us!

  7. I hope so! We just had fun outside play acting nursery rhymes. A storm is brewing up so I wanted them to get a little fresh air before the clouds break.

    Molly- I'm lucky to have such great friends!

  8. Well, I feel so lucky about my upbringing, even though I moaned about my parents like all kids do. I am sure your kids will moan about you too, Amy, but later they will realise what they have.

    (I've just noticed Cro's new picture - bloody hell!)

  9. Dreams are really the only form of escape we have form this world. And the fact that we can't control them makes them even more precious and special.

  10. Julia has called me a mean mommy a few times, but I just ignore it. I hope I can handle it when she and Liam are teens!


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